Unanswered Questions
by oqidaun
Summary: When things go bump in the middle of the night... An older, but vaguely familiar face stands watch at the Jedi Temple. InterTriology. Short Story.


Sans Dialogue Challenge:

Title: Unanswered Questions

Author: oqidaun

Timeframe: InterTrilogy

He heard it that time—really heard it. Silently, he swung his legs over the edge of bed, slipped his feet into his soft soled running shoes and reached for his robe with his free hand. His other hand already grasped the blaster he kept under the edge of his bed; he had been clutching it since shortly after midnight when the noise first woke him.

Seven nights in a row was no coincidence.

Holding fast to his blaster and tying his robe proved difficult, yet he managed even with his arthritic hand. Eschewing the possibility of a squeaky door mechanism alerting the intruder, he pushed the door open manually using his good shoulder. Leveling the old Security Forces standard issue S-5 blaster in front of him, he stepped out into the cavernous hangar bay. Briefly, his hand hovered over the control panel as he debated activating the emergency lighting. In the end he decided against it, not so much out of bravery, but an eagerness to avoid having to explain the late night power surge to his supervisor, a soulless Imperial accountant.

Enough light still filtered in through the dirty transparisteel windows to bathe the hangar in a ghostly blue haze. He sank into the shadows using the light to guide his search, yet careful not reveal himself. Tonight was the night, he was either going to find the noise he knew with every ounce of his being to have heard every night that week or turn in his resignation in the morning. A sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach warned him that he might end up doing both.

Dirty white tarpaulins covered old ships, broken down speeders and a pair of the big statues pulled down from the west wall. A thick layer of dust covered the hangar floor. He edged around the shadowy perimeter becoming more relaxed as the silence persisted. Finally, he stopped and lowered his blaster.

How did it come to this? He reflected as he leaned back against the wall and scratched his head. Thirty years ago he was called "the quickest eyes on Naboo", Captain of the Royal Guards and the personal bodyguard of a young headstrong queen. Now he was just a washed up security guard in a striped bathrobe with a crippled hand chasing after rodents in the boarded up hangar bay of the old Jedi Temple.

He sincerely hoped it was rodents.

The old ships and what was left of the temple treasures stored in the hangar enticed thieves, thus necessitating the employment of a twenty-four hour watchman in addition to two daytime guards. Fortunately, Nubian connections still drew some special preference in the new regime. The job came with room and board and while it certainly was no place to entertain guests, it helped him save a little extra to send back to his six granddaughters whose mother had died in a transport accident outside of Theed three years ago.

It was getting cold. He pulled the robe tighter and turned to head back to his little room, put on a pot of tea and wait for dawn to continue his investigation. Then he heard it. Distinctly, he heard it behind him. He stopped, set his jaw and slowly turned around as the noise retreated. Chills crawled down his spine like tree spiders.

He knew what he heard.

Quickly he retreated into the shadows making his way stealthily towards the main lift. Part of him pulled him back towards his room to wait it out behind a locked door, but that other part of him—that old, courageous Captain part—pushed him forward, despite how his heart pounded in his chest and the awful feeling rising in his stomach.

Just as he had feared, some one was using the lift and taking it to the upper levels of the building. He watched the light stop at Level Two, one of the old mezzanines. The Temple was restricted access and if someone had gotten up to the Second Mez he was going to lose his job. There was no turning back. He was not paid to be a coward. Driven by a youthful surge of energy and the desire to keep his Imperial benefits, Captain Rollo Panka burst into the stairwell.

If his heart had been pounding earlier from anxiety, it was now pounding because he was a sixty-five year old man who had just ran up six flights of stairs in his bathrobe. At the top of the stairs, it took him a moment to catch his breath before he could push through the door.

As he stepped out of the stairwell, he noticed the lift doors were still open and the lights inside bled out into empty hall. The heavy stair door slammed behind him with a thunderous boom and the echo reverberated through the building. Reflexively, he jumped forward, pushed his key chip into the control panel and using the firefighter's code locked the doors open. No one was recalling the elevator from this floor, except him. If there was anyone else up here, they could take the stairs. Additionally, the extra light was both needed and justified.

The mezzanine overlooked the main street level entrance of the Temple. He kept his blaster pulled and worked his way around the perimeter towards the grand staircase. Terrible things had happened here and it did not take any special Jedi ability to feel it. The chill that hung in the air preserved the memory of the dark deeds committed in the name of the Republic. Everyone who worked around the old Temple seemed to have a couple of odd stories—people heard voices, lights flickered, rooms got cold and some parts of the building just felt wrong. Despite the promise of easy work and good pay, the turnover rate was more than half. The man he had replaced had gone up one afternoon to the old Council tower with Darth Vader himself and swore on his soul that the dark lord had actually beaten him into the elevator on the way down.

There were many stories…

Panaka stopped and pushed the negative thoughts out his mind; thinking instead of his granddaughters. Then he chided himself for letting the rumors get to him, but he also remembered a little maxim he had picked up from his superstitious grandmother. If you think about them, you call them and if you call them, hold your tongue. Never speak to the dead. The thought popped into his head before he knew what he was doing. Frantically, he pushed it away and focused on a memory his granddaughter Sellia in her little pink dress picking flowers.

As he worked his way through the hall to the top of the grand staircase, he became more relaxed as he kept the image of Sellia fixed in his mind. He was so completely focused on the thought of his granddaughter that he almost failed to notice the outline of the little girl standing at the bottom of the stairs. The little girl, the one at least half of the stories mentioned. His heart leapt and he dropped his blaster. It tumbled end over end down the dusty marble staircase until came to rest on the first landing.

The little girl began to laugh. The hollow disembodied laugh stung his ears. It had been her laughter he had heard for the past week. He knew it well. Between them lay the blaster. He did not have to look at her to know what she was. The room was frigid, yet he was now sweating profusely.

Regardless of what stood at the base of the stairs, he could not leave his blaster.

Taking a deep breath he stepped forward keeping his eyes locked on the gun. The girl continued to laugh, her voice echoing through out the chamber. Desperately, he fought to focus on Sellia in her pink dress. Step by step, he drew closer to the blaster and suddenly the laughter stopped as he bent down and picked up the weapon. He exhaled. Quickly he turned on his heel and tore back up the stairs only to find the little girl standing on the top step looking down at him.

Eyeless. Never would he forget that face if he lived past this night. She had no eyes, only a thick cauterized scar. Honestly, he could not say whether or not she even had a mouth, he refused to look. He bit his lip to keep his teeth from chattering and squeezing his eyes shut he continued up the stairs.

Now she was standing beside him.

He felt her tug on his sleeve and fighting the urge to vomit he yielded to the direction she pulled him. Sweat dripped off his chin and his body ached. She stopped. He felt an icy touch against his fingers. Slowly he opened his eyes; she had led him to a marble seat at the base of a pair of tall windows looking out towards the mushroom shaped Senate arena in the distance. She was still there. For the first time he was brave enough to leave his eyes on her.

Just a little girl in her pajamas, not much old than Sellia…

She raised an index finger and held it up. He thought she was going to point, that's what ghosts did—didn't they? Mesmerized, he watched her pale hand as she began to write in dust collected on the marble seat. When she finished, she resumed her laughter and ran away. He listened as her tiny footsteps clattered down the stairs. Then he realized that they had all been mistaken, it was not laughter—it was tears.

He read the message scrawled in the dust.

---

Wordlessly, he dropped his resignation letter and key on his desk as he was walking out to catch the shuttle to Chan-Palp Spaceport. The other guard would find it and hand it over to the supervisor. He could make the 1140 transport to Naboo if he hurried and he had no intention of staying around to explain his sudden urge to retire to the little Imperial accountant. On Naboo there were six little girls who needed him.

---

The Nubian Citizen Class transport cleared Coruscant's gravity well and entered hyperspace at 1220 and it was only as the stars began to blur did he allow himself to think about what the laughing girl had written in the dust. It was same thing she always wrote, the same thing supposedly written in blood on the walls of the Council tower.

_Why Anakin, Why?_


End file.
